


Oh, Well

by happybeans



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: (Marci over-using the word 'psychopath' is the ableism), Ableism, Comedy, Gen, Identity Reveal, Marci Stahl POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:40:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26185075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happybeans/pseuds/happybeans
Summary: Marci’s just trying to get home. Of course, the one time she decides to do a nice thing, she ends up stuck down a hole with that new, psychopathic vigilante. But wait… Doesn’t this guy seem kind of familiar…?
Comments: 17
Kudos: 96
Collections: Daredevil and Defenders Exchange 2020





	Oh, Well

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brittlestars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittlestars/gifts).



> This fic is a gift for brittlestars based off their prompt, Outsider POV. I'd never written Marci before this exchange, but I really enjoyed the challenge! Don't be surprised if she appears in more of my stuff from here! I had a lot of fun playing with her character.

“Oh, now this—this is great.”

The man remains back facing her, ignoring her as she bemoans:

“Just how I wanted to spend my night off: stuck down a well with a fucking psychopath.”

“It’s not a well,” he says finally, and she can’t tell if his voice is actually that comically deep or if he’s just speaking from his chest. After a pause which makes Marci snort, he adds, “And I’m not a psychopath.”

“Right,” she replies, eyeing his weird-ass devil outfit, eyes landing on his—honestly impressively-bubbly ass. Her eyes narrow, and she squints in the darkness. “And we have plenty of sources which back the strange man who dresses like a devil every night to beat up clowns in alleyways.”

“Would a psychopath have saved you?”

“Did you, though?”

The way the question echoes back at them answers that well enough for them.

Oh, you’re probably wondering what the hell is going on. Let’s take you back to two minutes ago:

Marci’s walking home from work, and it’s late, okay? She works for Landman and Zack, are you really expecting her to have normal human hours? Ha. 

She’s making her way down the street when she passes by an alleyway, and she hears some strange sounds coming from it. 

Okay. This is New York. There’s plenty of strange sounds to be heard, especially those of a sketchy alleyway variety. She should keep walking. She should. 

But she’s pretty sure she knows what’s happening in there, and it isn’t pretty. And she’s been there, okay? It’s not right, and normally she’d be all for leaving the scene, but, well. Apparently she does have a heart, somewhere. 

Glossing over that series of cans of worms that she would prefer not to even look at so much as open, she enters the alleyway, pulling the satchel from her shoulder to use as a weapon (it’s quite hefty at this point, so it’s actually not a bad plan), but she notices something is off immediately. 

The man and woman in the alley step to the side, and just as Marci’s arrived, a man jumps down from the roof above. 

And as the man lands beside Marci, the ground quite literally opens up beneath them. 

Fuck!

The man grabs hold of her during the fall, pulling her above him so that he takes the brunt of the impact with the banging metal ground. 

Shocked and attempting to gain her bearings, Marci pulls away, some distant part of her listening to the conversation above:

“Shit, there’s a woman in there with him.”

“It’ll be fine. Boss can probably use her.”

“Good point.”

Oh, fuck. 

Last time Marci ever tries to do a good thing. 

And that’s what brings them to now, man jumping to his feet while Marci sits with her legs out, wondering how this has become her life, six feet underground like they’re in a coffin. 

Ha. Six feet. More like ten.

What on  _ earth _ is the psychopath  _ doing _ ?

After their little squabble, like this is some kind of fucking Mario game, the guy—because she is not calling him whatever nonsense the media’s started calling him; yes, she knows what he’s called, but she refuses to speak it aloud—launches himself inbetween the walls, bouncing from one side to the other until his hand catches the top. Then he drops back down, feet slamming hard against the metal floor and causing a clang that has Marci covering her ears. 

“The hell?” Marci asks. “Why are you still in here?”

The man doesn’t even turn to her, still facing the wall and staying crouched low to the floor. 

“I’m not leaving without you,” he declares, and Marci rolls her eyes. Stupidest shit she’s ever heard. 

“What, so we both just die down here? Or get trafficked or whatever those guys are planning? Great idea.”

“No,” the man growls, and his frustration is nearly enough to bring a smile to Marci’s face. 

But then she considers why she’s pavloved into loving that frustrated sound, and she’s back to staring at the stranger’s butt, and she may pause as she realizes that it doesn’t just seem familiar: it is familiar. 

She knows that butt. 

She opens her mouth, maybe to ask, “ _ Who are you?”  _ but he interrupts her, saying:

“Get on my back.”

“Are you insane?” she gets out, a laugh falling past her lips. 

“I’m boosting you up,” he explains shortly. 

She rolls her eyes. “You’re boosting me up,” she repeats. “Hell, why not?” 

She pulls the strap of her satchel straight, making sure it won’t strangle her on the way up, then steps forward, sitting on his shoulders. 

When he stands up straight, she starts wobbling around immediately until his hands grab hold of her thighs. 

Honestly, he’s in a perfectly non-pervy spot closer to her knee than anything else. She still slaps at one of his hands to be a bother. 

His hands move practically on top of her knees, and his head rolls like he’s rolling his eyes. 

Or maybe she’s imagining that since she is just trying to annoy him. 

“Uh, can’t reach,” she says, lifting her arm up to prove it.

His head tilts up. “Try harder,” he says. 

“Are you fucking blind? I can’t reach. Oh, sorry, let me just pull out my extra arm, my bad.”

“Could you be any less obnoxious?” he asks. “I’m trying to save us both here.”

“And that’s your mistake,” she says.

And maybe she shouldn’t be goading him on, and maybe she should try to be helpful here, but excuse her if she’s in a somewhat life-or-death situation. That’s what she would say for her client, so that’s her defense for herself. 

More importantly: who does she know who would dress like a devil every night to beat up bad guys? ...Is it Thomas Pinkerton? No, the hands are all wrong...

“This isn’t working,” he says. 

_ “Yeah, no shit,” _ she’s about to say, but he continues:

“Climb onto my shoulders. I won’t let you fall.”

She blinks, and she laughs because what else can she say? She shifts on autopilot after a brief pause.

“Heels off, first,” he adds. 

She laughs again. Even as she kicks them off, she says, “These heels are worth more than you. I’m billing you.”

The masked man doesn’t respond.

Right. She starts to move, immediately losing her balance. He holds out a hand, and she steps on that, and— _ holy shit, he’s strong _ —she uses that to push herself up, both hands against the wall for balance. 

Her other foot steps onto his shoulder, and she’s about to fall backwards, but he tilts forward, raising up on his toes, and she falls into the wall instead, arms falling around the edge of the ground outside. 

Holy shit.

This is easily the most ridiculous thing she’s ever done.

She pulls herself up—thank god for the gym—and as she sits panting on the ground, the masked man, after a second, comes leaping out of the trap, one pair of $800 heels in hand. 

He holds them out for her, and her eyes trail from his bubble butt to her heels to his face.

And oh. my. god. 

“You’re kidding me.”

There’s no eye lenses in that thing. He’s actually blind!

Matt Murdock tilts his head, frowning. 

She rolls her eyes, ashamed of herself for not placing it immediately. She snatches her heels, pulling them back on and rubbing at a scruff on one. 

“Gee,” she drawls, monotoned, looking at him from the corner of her eye. “You sure seem awfully familiar.”

He stiffens. Then he straightens up. 

“I should probably get going.”

“Does Foggy know?”

“No idea who that is.”

She laughs.

He tries again, “Those guys are coming back. You should leave.”

“No, they’re not.” She doesn’t actually know that. But she knows Matt Murdock. 

They stare each other down for a moment. Well, Marci stares him down; Matt Murdock does whatever his form of staring is. 

“I’m going to figure you out one day,” Marci tells him. 

“Probably not. Though feel free to try,” he says, and there’s that insufferable grin. “Goodbye, Marci.”

Then he’s jumping out of the alleyway, grudgingly-perfect ass and all. 

She shakes her head, doing the smart thing and hightailing it back to the relative safety of the sidewalk. 

She doesn’t know how he does it, and she’s not sure if she even wants to know. What she does understand, what she’s known all along, is that Matt Murdock’s a mystery. 

And she’s going to figure him out.


End file.
